Sincerely yours, Karl Schneider
My stomach turned inside out as I read it.
“Vhat does he vant?” asked Elisabeth, watching my face. “You look mad.” She scrunched up her face as if she had just stubbed her toe.
I folded it up tightly and put it in my pocket. “He wondered if you were doing well,” I lied.
Lately, memories of Karl came unbidden, like a gusty wind carrying me away to other times and places.
* * * *
The funeral service for my father was held a few days after he had been murdered. Friends from our Lutheran church helped to make arrangements. My father was buried next to my mother. I went through the motions, numb, as if this had happened to someone else and I was just a bystander.
Karl had been so sweet, so attentive to me this week. Throughout the funeral, he had stayed close to my side, watching me with worried eyes. “Are you going to be all right? I need to get back to University to meet with some people about…well…about making some plans.” Karl had won the competition handily after I had forfeited my spot. But neither of us seemed to care. I certainly didn’t.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Karl wrapped his arms around me. “Life will get good again, you’ll see.”
I felt comforted by his arms, by his presence, but I knew my life would never be the same.
“Where will you be?”
“For now, I’m staying at Diedre’s. I just can’t go back to the house.”
“Maybe we should get married sooner, especially if I’m to travel with…” He pulled back from me with something on his mind to say. “Annika, there were some important people at the competition.”
I smiled sadly. “I know. I’m glad you won. I really am.”
He bit his lip. “Very important.”
I tilted my head at him. “Who was there?”
“The Chancellor.”
I stepped back as if I had just touched a live wire. “Hitler was in the audience?”
Karl nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you know that he was going to be there?” My face must have shown the disgust I felt.
“Lower your voice.” Karl pulled me over to the side and looked around to see if anyone was listening to us. “I had heard a rumor but…you know how that goes.” His eyes scanned the crowd before he whispered, “I was sent word he wants me to play for official government events.”
My blood froze. “You are going to perform for Hitler?”
Karl gazed at me. “It’s just an opportunity, that’s all. Besides, how am I supposed to turn it down? You don’t turn down the Chancellor. I would be sent to the Russian front faster than I could play a C scale.”
My hands clenched into tight fists. “Hitler was the reason my father was murdered.”
Karl’s eyes were on my shoes, not my face. “Annika, you don’t know why he was murdered. It might have just been a break-in. Those stories are becoming common.”
“There was no robbery. Nothing was taken.” My hand slipped in my pocket to touch my father’s wedding ring, the one hidden in the flour jar. “Someone intended to kill him.”
“Maybe it just got out of hand. Maybe your father fought back. I could see him doing that.”
“There was a Star of David pinned to his chest, Karl. Not to his shirt, to his bare chest!”
Karl winced.
Suddenly, I was hit with my first wave of grief. Fighting tears, I asked, “You would really play for Hitler?”
Karl cupped my face with his hands, a conciliatory look on his face. “Darling, these aren’t normal times. We have to do what we have to do. Think about it—if I do this, I can avoid active military duty. That’s what we both want, to be together, yes?” He kissed me tenderly, told me he would call me later, and left.
* * * *
In mid-September, Robert came in to the kitchen while we were eating breakfast, holding the morning newspaper. “Elisabeth—look at this! The first Jewish Miss America!” Bess Myerson from the New York Bronx was chosen to be Miss America for 1945 in Atlantic City, New Jersey.
“Vhat is dat? Vhat is Miss America?” Elisabeth asked, looked puzzled.
“It’s a beauty pageant for young women. They receive scholarships for college, and travel around the country as a public servant. It’s very symbolic that a Jewish woman was chosen, Elisabeth. It shows that our country is becoming more understanding of other races and beliefs.”
Aunt Martha read the headline over his shoulder. “Do you think it’s going to be easy for her, Robert? That poor woman will be mistreated all over America. Look at that one paragraph.” She pointed to it. “They’ve already tried to get her to change her name.”
“But she refused,” Robert said, impressed. “I think she’s up for the job.”
“I thot dat America liked da Juden. I thot it vas yust da Nazis who hated da Juden,” Elisabeth asked.
“Well, ahem, well,” stammered Robert. “There are many people in America who still have ignorant ideas.”
Elisabeth peered at him thoughtfully. “Like dat Mr. Koops.”
“Exactly,” Robert answered.
Elisabeth cut out pictures of Bess Myerson and taped them onto her mirror in her bedroom. As I was putting away her laundry one day, I told her that if Bess Myerson came to Arizona, we would try to meet her.
She played with her hair, flipping it behind her ear. “I tink dat someday I will be da Miss America.”
“What a good idea,” I said, sitting down on her bed. “But you’ll need two things.”
“Vhat?”
“First, you’ll need to become a citizen of the United States.”
“How do I do dat?”
I really didn’t know. I came into the United States illegally, and then I married Robert, so I had stumbled onto a shortcut. “We’ll have to ask Judge Pryor.”
“So vhat is da next ting?”
“You’ll need a talent.”
“Like vat?”
“Hmm, well…didn’t Bess Myerson play the piano in the pageant?” I rose to leave without saying another word.
The next afternoon, William and I were coming back from the library. Aunt Martha was at the market. As I drew close to the kitchen door, I heard Elisabeth playing the piano. I leaned against the door jam; the sound took my breath away. I motioned to William to go throw the ball for Dog while I listened. We went unnoticed until William threw Dog’s ball so high it got stuck in a bush and Dog barked at it. I heard Elisabeth slam the lid of the piano shut and scurry up the stairs. I went over to the bush, retrieved Dog’s ball and said crossly, “Dog, you cut short the concert.” But inwardly, I breathed, Thank you, Lord, for letting me hear her play.
The next day, the milkman stopped at the kitchen door to chat with Aunt Martha. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, as he handed her two milk bottles. “Almost every day I’ve been getting complaints that people ain’t getting my milk! A different house each time. And I know for a fact that I’ve delivered it.”
Robert and I exchanged a concerned look. Could Elisabeth still be “organizing?” I shook my head. No, no, it was impossible.
One morning in mid-October, I stretched out in bed and waited for the now familiar baby kicks to begin. After the first nudge or two, I got up, threw on my robe, and headed for the kitchen, stopping at the door. There on the floor was a tattered letter from the school that Elisabeth needed, signed and returned. A request for a conference from Mr. Koops.
Oh no. This was no way to start a day.
I dreaded meeting with Mr. Koops. He and Elisabeth were at constant odds. I tried to convince Robert to go in my place, but he had a meeting with the Elders. When the appointed time arrived, I sat on a child-sized chair. Mr. Koops sat authoritatively at his desk. I felt small.
“Well, Mrs. Gordon,” he started with his customary scowl, “things are about as I expected them to be. Maybe even worse. Elisabeth is nearly failing my class. The work is too difficult for her. She has trouble keeping up.”
“She’s still mastering English, Mr. Koops. Look at how much progress she has made in just a few months.”
He ignored my remark. “And she antagonizes her schoolmates.”
“How so?”
“For example, she taught Peter Harwood to say ‘Ich bin ein dumkopf.’ She told him it was a very, very, very bad word. So, of course, he taught all the other boys to repeat it.”
I had to bite my lower lip, hard, to keep from smiling. Unfortunately, as usual, I didn’t conceal it very well.
“I know what that phrase means, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Well, Peter Harwood was hardly a scholar.
“And there are other concerns about her judgment. She’s become friends with another child who doesn’t fit in.”
“Everyone deserves to have a friend, Mr. Koops. Everyone.” I tried to mask my annoyance. I really did. Robert had given me a lecture about holding my tongue with Mr. Koops. He pointed out that losing my temper with Mr. Koops would only make things harder for Elisabeth.
“Yes, well, you know what they say.”
“No, Mr. Koops. What do they say?”
“Peas in a pod.”
I looked at him as if he was speaking another language.
“I meant that trouble finds trouble.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Tanya Myers.”
I hadn’t heard anything about Tanya from Elisabeth, but that was no surprise. She didn’t volunteer information, only her sour opinions about the shortcomings of Copper Springs. “I’m not concerned, Mr. Koops.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “The Reverend might be. His aunt certainly would be.”
How patronizing! How pious! “So, you said Elisabeth is passing your class.”
“I said nearly failing.”
“That sounds like passing to me.” I had heard all I needed to hear from Mr. Koops. I stood up. “Please excuse me. There’s another teacher whom I should meet in a few minutes.”
I went over to Miss Howard’s room and waited, leaning against the wall, until her conference had finished. She looked surprised when she saw me but asked me to sit down. “I don’t have another conference scheduled today,” she said, pointing to an adult-sized chair for me to sit in.
A minor but symbolic act, it seemed. We were seated eye-to-eye.
I took a quick breath. “You didn’t request a conference for Elisabeth.”
“No need.”
Trying not to sound too eager, I asked, “So is Elisabeth doing well in your class? Or well enough?”
“She’s coming along very well. She’s really trying. To be truthful, she’s not up to grade level, but I love her effort.”
I bit my lip. “May I ask you about Tanya Myers?”
“I know who she is but I don’t have her in any of my classes.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
She hesitated. “Just that it can’t be easy for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, her father was killed in the war. Her mother cleans houses to make ends meet. I think they live with a grandmother. But it can’t be easy being the only Negro child in this school.”
Now I understood Mr. Koops’ comments. The nerve of that man! And to make an assumption that Robert wouldn’t want Elisabeth to be friends with Tanya. He obviously didn’t know Robert.
I stood, silently suggesting that God strike Mr. Koops with a bolt of lightning. Then I informed Him that I was going to go tell that man exactly what is wrong with him! Instantly, I felt an inner prompting to do the opposite: to keep my mouth closed. Frustrated, and now annoyed with God as well as Mr. Koops, I went over to the window for a moment, trying to calm down. As I turned back to Miss Howard, I noticed an old piano in the corner. “Do you play?”
“No. I wish I did. The students only have music twice a week and we need to practice the songs for the Christmas musical. We really need the practice,” she emphasized.
“Elisabeth plays beautifully,” I said sadly, “but I don’t think she’s ready.” I had only heard her play that one time. As far as I know, she hadn’t touched the piano since.
Miss Howard came over to stand near me by the window. “Mrs. Gordon, there’s one thing you should know about Mr. Koops. His younger brother was in the army. He was held as a POW by the Germans and executed as he tried to escape.”
The fire passed out of me, as fast as it came. Oh Lord. For once, I listened to you before I spoke. “No. I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me.”
Reluctantly, I stopped by Mr. Koops’ room. He was seated at his desk, correcting papers. He looked irritated when he saw me at the door.
“I just found out about your brother. I’m sorry.”
He visibly tensed up and his eyes narrowed into slits. “My brother was killed because of trying to save those Jews.”
“It wasn’t Elisabeth’s fault,” I said slowly, pointedly.
He turned his attention back to his papers on his desk.
“But I am very sorry about your brother, Mr. Koops.” I turned quietly and left.
On the way home, I stopped at Rosita’s restaurant. It was just a small restaurant, only eight tables, but she was a wonderful cook and it was nearly always full, at least on weekends. I found her in the kitchen, skillfully rolling small balls of dough to make corn tortillas. “Where are Esmeralda and Juan?” I asked her.
“Esmeralda took him home for a good nap. That boy is making me loco en el coco.” She pointed to her head and made a stirring motion. “Crazy. Here. Sit. I get you some dinner.”
I sat on a little chair, watching her bustle efficiently in the kitchen. She placed a plate in front of me with enchiladas, rice and beans. “Double portions. You are eating for two, you know.”
Gratefully, I started eating. Lately, I was always hungry. But I had another reason to stop by. “Rosita, has Esmeralda ever said how Elisabeth seems to be settling in to school?”
She stopped rolling the dough and looked up at me, startled. “Oh yes. She is doing great. Just great. Lots of friends. Everyone loves her.” She nodded with exaggeration.
Rosita was a lovable, big-hearted, sweet-to-the-core person, but she was a terrible liar.
Chapter Nine
One evening, I sat down at the piano. I had been working on Beethoven's Sonata No. 8 in C Minor. Suddenly, Elisabeth burst out of her room and flew down the stairs, shouting, “No! No! Vhy do you alvays do it dat vay?”
I looked at her blankly, but I knew. I had played it incorrectly to see if she would catch the mistake. The second movement had a suspension at the end. Instead, I resolved it up. I stood and swept my hand at the bench in a be-my-guest gesture.
She stared at me accusingly. Then she sat down at the piano and played it correctly. “See? Da melody repeats twice before da song goes to da B section. Den twice again. Don’t you see? Can’t you hear it? Vhat is da matter vit you?”
I nodded. “Oh, oh, now I see.”
With an air of disgust she jumped off of the piano bench and clomped back up the stairs.
Leaning against the door jam to the kitchen, arms folded against his chest, Robert said, “Well, well, well. Ever thought of a career in child psychology?”
I grinned. “It’s a start, don’t you think?”
* * * *
Later in the week, Dog disappeared. My concern grew after Elisabeth returned home from school and he still hadn’t returned.
Just before dark, Mrs. Bauer knocked on the parsonage door. As Robert opened the door to her, Dog charged through, a little pink leash dangling from his collar.
Mrs. Bauer was a very active and overly opinionated member of the First Presbyterian Church of Copper Springs. She stood at our door, hands planted firmly on her hips, and told us she would call the dog catcher if Dog showed himself around her darling poodle Mitzi one more time. “And what breed is that dog anyway?” she sniffed.
“Well, Mrs. Bauer, he has a questionable line
age,” Robert explained.
A little gasp escaped from her lips. “You had better pray that there will not be any…repercussions, Reverend!” Abruptly, she spun on her heels and left.
I patted Dog’s head as I unclipped the pink leash from his collar. “We really should have him turned into a eunuch, Robert.”
Robert eyes went wide as his jaw dropped open. “Louisa! Don’t say such a thing around him. Don’t even use that word!”
I handed him the leash. “What word should I use?”
“Well, that he should be neutered. But still, don’t even think such a thought. That’s a very serious operation. I’m not sure that we even want to…consider…changing him. Why…it’s unthinkable!“
Dog stared at me soberly, as if he understood the conversation and was deeply disappointed in me.
“It’s not his fault, Robert. It’s just his nature to go roaming. After all, he is a dog.”
“We just need to keep a better eye on him,” he objected.
I rolled my eyes. “Then you can return the leash and do the explaining to Mrs. Bauer the next time Dog gets a little wanderlust.”
The next morning, over a bowl of Cheerioats, I asked William, “What are you doing with your spy log?”
“Nothing,” he answered glumly. “This town is boring.”
“What if you started to take pictures along with your observations? You could develop reconnaissance skills.”
“What? What’s that?” he asked, looking at me carefully, unsure of the word I had used.
“Reconnaissance. Let me spell it out for you.” I took a piece of paper and wrote it out carefully. “You gather evidence of observations. It’s a military strategy. The Navy pilots took aerial reconnaissance. From an airplane, they would take pictures of where they wanted to drop bombs, so they would hit factories instead of villages.”
William’s interest was growing. “Maybe I’ll be a Navy pilot one day.”
“See? That’s why you need these skills,” I said encouragingly.
“Louisa! Why on earth do you keep trying to turn him into a spy?” Robert called out from the parlor where he had been reading the newspaper.
The Copper Series Page 35
